


Ribes Rubrum

by nat_scribbles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, I Don't Even Know, I tried to do hand porn, M/M, and food porn, and mouth porn, but this isn't porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nat_scribbles/pseuds/nat_scribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are strange berries in the fridge of 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ribes Rubrum

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the characters aren't mine, I'm just having fun with them, and English isn't my first language, please excuse the mistakes.

He’d thought once he’d miss the English weather: the smell of wet grass, the soothing noise of the rain, the sudden rush of cold when you stepped outside that made you zip up your jacket and rub your hands together.  Romanticising it, really, being in Afghanistan for too long would do that to you. Truth is being cold and having wet socks was shit. Also, it made John’s shoulder hurt. It was a dull ache, almost enough to push it to the back of his mind, but not quite. So he was glad when he got back home after a long double-shift at the surgery – _thank you so much for that, Sarah, maybe next time you’ll let me get past the lilo_ -, ready to make himself a nice cuppa and relax with his feet by the fireplace and the newspaper in his hands. Just another evening at 221B.

 

“I’m home!” he announced, putting the grocery bags on the table. Sherlock had texted they were out of milk  _again_. Seriously, what did the man do with so much milk?

 

“It’s for my experiments, I don’t expect you to understand.”

 

John jumped a bit. He should be used by now to his flatmate’s ninja-like skills of sneaking up and blending with the rooms or his mindreading, but he wasn’t.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

 

John raised his eyebrows. Right.

 

“I’m home.”

 

“Your ability to state the obvious  _twice_  astonishes me.”

 

Git. John sighed and put the milk in the fridge, deliberately ignoring the bag of ears that definitely wasn’t there that morning or the…

 

“What’s that?”

 

“ _Ribes Rubrum._ ”

 

“Right.” John eyed the round, red berries carefully. “So, cranberries?”

 

“No, those would be  _Vaccinium oxycoccos_.”

 

“Of course. Where did you get them?”

 

Sherlock gave him his patented even-Anderson-could-figure-that-one-out look.

 

“Right, so you went grocery shopping, didn’t buy the milk and texted me to do it instead?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Okay, right.” John thought he ought to be mad, but he was used to it already, which was a bit worrisome. “So, this Ri-whatever-um, is it poisonous?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the berries out of the fridge with a dramatic sigh. He took one of the delicate racemes out of the box and placed it under the sink. The weight of the plump berries bent the thin, flexible branch holding them all together as water fell over them until John thought it would break. Sherlock lifted it over his head, the red berries covered in small droplets that looked like morning dew.

 

John felt time stop.

 

A drop of water slowly made its way down the detective’s long index finger and the back of his hand. John could see it tracing every knuckle, sliding down that clever, deft finger that was able to draw beautiful melodies from the violin he loved so much, he could see it moving torturously slowly down the back of the alabaster hand, moving towards the inside of it and hugging the curve of the wrist, caressing the thin skin on the inside, tracing the blue veins, and leaving a wet trail behind, like a lover’s tongue, when it finally ran down the man’s forearm, passing almost invisible old track marks before disappearing into a dark stain on a rolled silky shirtsleeve.

 

And then Sherlock opened his mouth, his glorious, heart-shaped, clever mouth, and lowered the round, red berries. It was all in slow motion to John. The detective’s pink tongue darted out ever so slightly and he closed his eyes, dark eyelashes fluttering against impossible cheekbones. Painfully slowly, the whole raceme was lowered into the open eager mouth, red berries slipping past the plump lips, and Sherlock closed it, lightly pursed lips catching the pads of his thumb and index finger and John could almost feel the texture of the calluses from the violin strings against his own tongue. The now empty branch slid out of the detective’s mouth equally slowly before the man started chewing, eating the berries, tongue occasionally swiping over the perfect Cupid’s bow and full lower lip.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and John snapped out of it.

 

“Right, so, not poisonous then.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

The detective dropped the empty raceme on the floor before walking towards the sofa, blue dressing gown billowing behind him, and slumping down on it, fingertips resting against lips.

 

John couldn’t help but wonder how Sherlock’s mouth would taste.


End file.
